


An Imaginary Friend To Fall Asleep To

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [15]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, I swear i have no idea im just writing, Musical Notes as a Literal Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:33:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Even with a minimum obedience of 45% Ornery beefalo are not complete assholes.Also someone remembers what it was like to create something from his imagination.





	An Imaginary Friend To Fall Asleep To

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got my ornery beefalo in my eternal winter server. I love her a lot.

Maxwell huffed at the shaggy creature, a low, irritated note of deep musical sound that rung in the winters chilly morning air. With a cloak made of the beasts kin hanging on his shoulders, hood heavy on his head with twisted horns hanging over him, the cold of the white season was dulled significantly and he paid no mind to the fresh snow that had settled overnight.

The beefalo huffed back at him, not at all musical in nature and chewing steadily, yellowed grass bristling out of its mouth. It flicked its tail, shaking itself and completely ignoring the saddle it had shrugged off.

Maxwell had just about enough with the dumb beast. All that time and effort, all those resources, and the creature still had problems with letting him ride it.

It should be just fine with something as simple as at least letting him sit on it; after all, he's let it go off on its own in the spring, and even calve a couple of times now, and never even thought about culling the ugly offspring either! He knew for a fact that Wigfrid would slaughter her beasts children without care, the viking more focused on the steady supply of food than on a creatures rather less than stellular motherly attentions. It should know by now how lucky it truly was, being his beast of burden instead of someone who thought about eating it on a regular basis.

But alas, the blasted thing still shrugged off its saddle and bellowed at him when it did not want to be ridden, still did not seem to understand that relieving itself inside his camp rather than outside of it was entirely out of line. As if it had a choice when its owner wanted to use it for vehicular purposes, and Maxwell rubbed his eyes and sighed through his nose, taking a few steps forward to bend down and sweep up the rather heavy saddle into his arms. The beefalo continued its chewing, eyeing him boredly, and it swished its tail around again, chasing away the few flies left after the first frost of last night. 

The buzzing was irritating, a drone from the darting insects, Maxwell flicking a gloved hand to brush snow off of the leathery saddle seat, and he glared at the beefalo.

A small string of notes escaped him, curling quietly and deeply with frustration and resignation, and after a moment he reached out and patted the beasts furry shoulder, a sour expression stuck on his face.

The beefalo, for its part, accepted the touch, even going so far as to lean slightly towards him, almost throwing the man off balance and causing the low notes to grow a little deeper as they fell from his mouth.

He didn't especially like these smelly, hairy, dirty and much too foul creatures, with their sturdy plodding and simple minded, survival instinctive brains, herds that grew and grew with each season and their damnable and extremely loud courtship rituals, but the fact of the matter was-

He had been the one to create them.

And, taking a step back and watching the beast turn its head to look at him with huge pale eyes, face slightly thicker and heavier jawed, fur not as dingy as the rest of its wild brethren, Maxwell admitted to himself that the ugly thing was growing on him.

Not that he would ever let anyone know such a thing, but then again, it was not as if he could actually tell anyone anything.

It wasn't exactly like a whistle of noise, more like a slow exhale of strung music that fell from his lips, and the beefalo flicked its ears and turned its head back down to continually gnaw at the prairies yellowed grass, bushing with bits of frost and fallen snow. Soon enough everything would be covered in a few feet of ice, and he'd have to think of somewhere else to graze the creature when he had no need for it.

Winter was slow coming, and he expected it to be a long season this year. Not exactly what he most liked, especially with the migration and coming of age of the snow giants, but there were always ways to deal with such things. 

If one way was to end up dying far away from camp to make sure the destruction wasn't total, than so be it. Maxwell has seen such things before, and has done it a few times himself. Success, however, was always a little finicky, and he hoped that the beefalo before him would not become a casualty this year.

As for everything else, he should be fine. Rabbit and bird traps worked well enough, and spider meat was always an option. The pengulls would be in the area soon as well, to raise their offspring among the cliffs and squall at the native egg eaters, so perhaps if he was nimble enough he could get away with a little stealing as well.

He should be fine.

Just so long as he stayed well away from the other camps and made sure his was kept safe, made sure no sticky hands wandered to his own supplies. Last year he had a problem with that sort of thing, straying away from camp days on end only to come back to a gutted base presumed to have been abandoned. 

The beefalo huffed, shuffled its weight as it turned and pushed him with its side, Maxwell pulling the saddle to his chest and trying to keep his balance with the heavy weight. He grumbled at it, sound distorted and a little brokenly deep, doing his best to keep a good grip on it, before glaring at the shaggy beast and then turning away, heading back to his shoddy camp. 

Snow crunched underfoot, slowly soaking his worn shoes and fraying socks, and he frowned as he glared at the frost, already unable to feel his toes. His base wasn't far at all, beefalo and prairie in sight a few feet away, yet by the time he finally got his feet on solid wood only lightly doused with powdered snow Maxwell had almost lost his grip on the saddle twice, huffing as he attempted to not drop the damn thing. Hanging it on a chest was the only thing he could think of to do with it, and he wheezed a string of musical notes as he caught his breath, cloud vapor rising from his mouth and feeling the cold twist underneath the cloak he was wearing. He was never one for weight lifting, not at all, and these blasted saddles were always so unnecessarily heavy.

He turned his head to glare once more at the peacefully grazing beefalo. That beast better know how lucky it was, with him as its owner!

It continued to idly ignore him.

Sighing, puffs of clouded air escaping him with every breath, Maxwell turned to the empty fire pit, gaze searching around for the logs he had on hand. There were better options for fuel, but all he had were frozen wood chunks. At some point in the future, he noted, gathering up a few of the logs and sinking down to his knees to start the fire, flint fished out from his pocket, he would need to find a way to gather a large amount of charcoal for this purpose. 

Swathes of forest would go up in flames every once in awhile, whether by accident or planned he didn't care in the slightest, and taking from that resource was what he usually did, but the thought of getting caught out there by the firestarters was an ever pressing concern. They'd more than likely assume that he was “stealing” from them and he would rather not know what they'd do under such circumstances. He'd think that they'd only want him to give up what he had gathered, but one never knew when it came to dealing with that group of, urgh, savages.

He was quite certain that the viking was just waiting for the opportunity to kill him, and that creature of hers was always giving him the stink eye whenever they met in tense, silent passing.

His own beefalo never seemed to sense a thing and it irked him greatly. One of the benefits of taming such a creature was the protection, the hulking furry thing a good enough meat shield at times. Unfortunately it had the nasty habit of never really being there when he needed it.

The fire took a moment to start, small and weak on the damp logs, the ash and bits of charcoal left in the stone pit aiding only a bit, and Maxwell raised his gloved hands over the licking flames, a light tremor in his bones as the cold settled in him. The cold was always a little difficult to deal with on his own, but he'll manage.

He's been doing well so far, especially with his camp so distanced as it was to the other survivors, and that had to mean something, right? 

After a moment of watching the flames steadily grow stronger, his fingers finally getting some warmth into them as he massaged his hands, the crisp winter silence was broken. Snow crunched under a sturdy weight and he turned his head right when hooves met wooden flooring, loud and thumping as the shaggy silhouette hauled itself from the frost bitten earth onto man made floors.

Maxwell shot up to his feet with a surprised whine of musical sound, quickly turned deep and distorted as he waved his hands at the lumbering beefalo, trying to dissuade it from going further. With a snort from its widened nostrils, almost a sneeze as it eyed him boredly, the beefalo ducked its head and its slow progress continued forward, huge spiked horns making him stumble out of its path and almost knock over his shoddy, thrown together crockpot. Steadying it with still cold hands, barely glancing at the stone pot before Maxwell turned a narrow glare at the beast that had invaded his camp.

It had a place outside, where it should be and where it should stay, but the damn thing was too stupid and had started pushing its way onto the crooked attempts at wood planks he had made a while back, doing it even more often with the change in the weather. The weather shouldn't even be affecting it, the beast had fur! It would do just fine out in the cold or thick powdery snow!

He growled at it, hissing spits of musical notes from his throat as the beefalo lumbered its way to his firepit, slowing to a halt and heaving a sigh as it curled down, tangled tufts of fur bristling as it shook its huge head. It glanced at him slowly, not even a smidgen of intellect in its dull white eyes, and Maxwell's face twisted into a snarl as he stomped over to it, focused on getting it out of his camp as he grumbled more distorted strings of infuriated song. 

As it continued to watch him, not quite balefully but almost, the flicker of the fire caught his eye and Maxwell heaved a sigh, changing his course to the wood pile. Getting a fire started took time and energy, while keeping it alive didn't take as much, and he huffily tossed a few logs into the firepit, sparks and embers thrown up and briefly settling on the snow soaked floorboards and the beefalos wild fur before going out with a silent flash. After a moment of glaring at nothing in particular, arms crossed and holding himself stiffly, Maxwell heaved a sigh and slid down next to the warmth of the fire, the beefalos large head resting on the shoddy wood planks and watching him with huge white cream eyes. He gave it a glance, still a little miffed that he couldn't even keep his own camp empty of such overbearing vermin, and the beefalo blinked slowly at him, downturned eyes and grim, hardened face watching him.

Not in loyalty, like the vikings hulking beast, and not in some beastal devotion, like that fat lugging thing they kept at camp for the children to play on, the mime always a little too happy when having to deal with its almost dog like attitude, this...thing wasn't at all like the other creatures that the other survivors let into their camps, he was sure.  
Obviously his wasn't “special”, it was as stupid as ever, and it felt nothing for him since it was just a hunk of mobile muscle, such creatures felt nothing but their own beastal instinct and nothing more or less. It wasn't here under some personified obligation; it was here since he fed it everyday. 

The beefalo heaved a sigh, great chest and back rising and falling, its tail flicking against the floorboards, and its eyes blinked slowly once more before sliding closed. 

Well, good. Now it wont actively try to relieve itself in his camp, at least until it woke up. 

After a moment of silence, only broken by the fires crackles and pops, Maxwell reached out a hand and, hesitating for only a moment, rested his hand on the beasts great head.

It breathed deeply, evenly, and didn't seem disturbed by his touch, his own flicker of disgust at the tangled fur pushed back down. He was cold, the cloak not quite helping as much anymore, a few seasons old now, and he grumbled another few hiccups of instrumental music before scooting over.

Closer than he usually liked to be, the beasts huffing breaths billowing puffs of fogged cloud from its nostrils, but Maxwell hunched his shoulders, a gloved hand still on the creatures fur laden thick skinned head as he pressed up to its side.

The creature dwarfed him, not quite like the vikings horned monster but still large enough to give him the sense that it could trample him to death if it wanted to, even while asleep. Still, up against its shaggy fur, it wasn't as cold as it had been.

His gaze turned away from the fire, softening as he examined the face of the creature he had once thought to only be a funny little idea, not quite counting sheep but big ol’ beefalo, thundering creatures not unlike the cows and bison roaming the world outside. 

There had been talk, at some point, of the bison becoming extinct. Hunting them all down, one by one.

Maxwell wondered for a moment if any were still left. He wondered, briefly, if any of the others knew the answer to that.

Even if they did, they wouldn't be able to tell him, not with the lack of proper words between them all. This music business was a hassle, but it's gone on long enough for it to not look like it would be going away soon.

He sighed, a brief huff of musical whine, and the beefalos ears flicked at the sound, the creature shifting for a moment as he pulled back his hand from its head. Pressed up against it, his side brushing the mane of fur on its neck, even not quite as close as he could be, the beasts body heat warmed the air, the steady fire aiding in keeping the chill dusk winter air away. He didn't feel quite as cold as he had been, and Maxwell loosely curled his arms in his lap, hands clasping his inner arms, elbows on his crossed knees. 

Dusk was always so short in the winter, and he looked out across the plains to the sun slowly dipping under the horizon, a splashing mix of oranges and reds and golds as it set.

When he had been upon the Throne, watching through windows and appearing in glamours illusions, the world to be shaped under his hands and sweeping the chess board pieces off their feet with every world, he hadn't bothered with such things like sunsets. The sun would whiff out behind mountains, quickly descending into total darkness, and even in the day the sky had a curious shade of blank to it. The empty darkness, even in the bright sunlight, a dark black pit above their heads, was enough to drive a few of them utterly mad.

Perhaps he was lucky that whoever was upon the Throne had made the decision to create such things like sunsets and sunrises, the moons slivered light awakening every night until a blinding full moon graced the world. From what he has seen, upon the seat of power and bindings and tar, the void of his created sky was quite terrible to behold and heavy with despair.

The beefalo snored, a hitch in its deep breath, and Maxwell glanced at with an expression that wasn't at all disgust or displeasure, something softer and nostalgic as he glanced one more time at the painted sky. He hummed something, some deep lilting sound of a musical nature, the darkness gathering and piling in grand sweeps around both creator and creation, and Maxwell closed his eyes and sighed, hand once more brushing the beasts head with lightly trembling fingers.

As ragged as it seemed, its fur was surprisingly soft and clean, even around its heavy laden horns. Debating for a long moment, another hum of noise along with the fires own crackling chant, he carefully slid one of his gloves off, leaving it on his knee as he spread his fingers through the creatures dirty blonde fur.

Almost exactly as he had once imagined it would be like.

Almost.

Maxwell rubbed his other hand over his eyes, tired, tired from the preparations of this winter, tired from the constant drag of finding something to eat, tired from the beefalos own presence as something he had to care for now. His other hand stroked through the creatures furry mane, twinging strands through his fingers, a soft distraction from his own inner thoughts, and after a moment he sighed, heavy enough to be tinged with a low note of sound.

He stared into the warm fire, the darkness thrumming around him, and he was almost dozing when something damp on his face startled him awake.

It took a moment to understand, slowly raising his gloved hand and watching as twirling snowflakes landed on the worn leather before melting instantly, and Maxwell exhaled quietly, other hand pressing closer to the beasts warm skin and soft strands of fur. The snowfall didn't seem to affect the beefalo, and a small, somewhat ignored part of him was relieved at this.

It would sleep until morning, a large shaggy bundle of warmth and protection, and Maxwell might have smiled at the thought as it heaved a sigh, grinding it's bulky teeth a moment before settling.

Who would have thought that such a thing as an imagined fantasy cow could ever be so real?


End file.
